54 EXCUSES

54 Excuses

“Come in, my friend,” Bob said, cheerfully. “How delighted I am to see you. How are the horses treating you these days?”

“No complaints. Have a filly running tomorrow at Belmont, in fact. It’s why I’m in town.”

“Ah, I see. She gonna win?”

“'Spect so, but it’s only her second start. She should have won her debut, but she stumbled out the gate. Went right to her knees and had too many lengths to make up, but like her chances this time.”

“Chances, schmances,” Bob chuckled, and led me to his den. “Listen to you, and you call yourself a horse owner— the ultimate optimist. If you expect to squeeze a hondo from this old dude, you’re supposed to say: ‘heck yeah, Bob. Slam dunk. Bet the farm and we’ll meet at D’Nato’s for a victory dinner.’”

“Yeah, I suppose. But wasn’t it you who once said bangtails have a way of making monkeys out of owners?”

“Yep, that be me. You remember your lessons well, I see.” Bob motioned to a tray of delectable treats as he coaxed the cork from a fine Bordeaux.

“Don’t mind if I do, they look yummy.”

Over the years, Bob has been more than a friend. He’s been a savvy advisor helping me learn the racing game stemming from years of hosting a weekly TV show on New York racing. His den is a gallery of awards, photos, and bits of memorabilia. One such alluring item entitled: 54 EXCUSES, drew me closer. I knew there is only one way to win a horse race, but after scanning the zany document, I was hooked.

“Where in blue blazes did you find this little gem?”

“Oh that, isn’t it neat? It was in a trainer’s tack room at Aqueduct. Over the years, someone compiled a list of excuses horse owners use after losing a race. Yep, I’ve heard ‘em all at some point.”

Hmm, 54 Excuses. I paused to reflect. “And you say, 'compiled over years', huh?” Hmm. My poorly disguised, guilt-ridden grin widened. “You know, Bob, this thing reminds me of a crazy time I had with my buddies once, and not so long ago.”

“No kidding.” Bob added another measure of wine to my glass. “Make yourself comfy and tell me about it.” Bob offered his glass in toast and settled into his favorite, overstuffed armchair.

“Let’s see; where to begin,” I said, composing my thoughts. “A few years ago, a group of us country club cronies pooled our money thinking we’d try our luck at owning a race horse. We hired Terry Fyde to be our agent for buying a yearling.”

“Ah, I know Terry well; a good horseman.”

“At the auction, we didn’t come close on our first two tries, but the bidding slowed on a third prospect. Terry was bidding on a chestnut colt, and this time, the price was within our budget. One partner had his young son along who blurted: ‘Are we gonna get diss’un, daddy?’

“A moment later, the hammer fell on Terry’s bid. We eventually named the colt, Dissun Terry— in honor of little Mikey. Yeah, we were in the game hook, line, and stinker,” I said, chuckling.

“The colt grew and muscled out nicely during breaking and early training. Approaching race day, our optimism mushroomed, but he let us down miserably when running tenth of twelve starters.

"‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ the trainer said. Few horses ever win their first out. With more experience, he’ll improve.’

"We listened, and weeks later, our deflated eqos had ballooned back with can’t-miss enthusiasm. Though only a modest race for maiden claimers, to us it seemed like Derby Day.

“We arrived early though our race was ninth on the card. We were decked out in fancy duds exuding new-owner pomp and energy. Even little Mikey squealed: ‘our horsie's gonna win today, right Daddy?’

“Though overcast and threatening rain, nothing could dampen our spirits. After all, we were bona fide racehorse owners flaunting privileged passes and perks.

“We bet the early races and sipped beers while waiting for Charlie, the colt’s trainer to arrive. When he showed, I introduced him to partners he hadn’t met, but he seemed aloof and uneasy."

“‘You look perplexed,’ I said. ‘Is something on your mind?’

"‘Actually, a few things do bother me.’ Charlie sipped his beer, thinking before revealing more concerns.

“‘Hell’s, bells,’ Rich blurted. ‘So what’s eatin’ ya? Are we gonna run today, or what?’

"Startled, and not knowing us that well, Charlie paused, seizing the moment to read faces. ‘Um, y’all remember Dissun’s first start when I said [27] he just didn’t run his race that day, but not to get discouraged?’

“‘Well, I’m worried [25] he ain’t the same horse he was earlier when you first hired me; that maybe [26] he was ruined by the hard track he came from.’

"Charlie was referring to the colt’s initial breaking at Kelly’s training center in South Carolina. We were dumfounded, our zeal going down the same drain as kidney-filtered beers.

“‘But y’all urged me on; to keep him in training— 'that [3] he’ll be better next time, he needed the race', you said, remember? Well, when you insisted [47] he needs his races closer together, I worked him harder. But if you ask me, I think [44] he left his race on the training track. In fact, I'm thinking [45] he needs a rest.’

“Thank God someone had the presence of mind to suggest another round of drinks. ‘On me,’ Bobby volunteered, and started toward the bar.

“‘Change mine to whiskey!’ Chuck hollered.

“‘Yeah, and make it a double for me, too,’ Bill added. Bobby flashed thumbs-up and soon returned with whiskies for everyone. I again asked Charlie if we were still going to run.

“‘Of course,’ Charlie confirmed. ‘It’s too late to scratch. But there’s still another thing that bothers me about last time; I’m pretty certain [19] it wasn’t his distance.’

“‘I knew it. I just knew it,’ Bill said. ‘I’ve heard enough of this baloney. The guy’s got more excuses than Carter has pills. We came here for nothing.’

“Bobby faced the trainer, his expression distorted from a healthy gulp of whiskey. ‘Bill’s right, sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me. Just what are you trying to feed us, anyway? We all know why he lost his debut: [23] the track was too deep and [28] the turns are too sharp at this track.’

“Larry interrupted. ‘Yeah, I too recall somethin’ about how [15] he didn’t like the track. So what gives, Charlie?’ A group of dubious eyes set upon the trainer.

“‘Like I said, boys, things were different then; his loss had nothin’ to do with the track.’ Charlie reminded us that [33] it was his first time he’s been around two turns, and sheepishly added: ‘besides, there’s more things to worry about this time.’

“Hearing that, Bill took a menacing step toward Charlie. ‘Oh? You say there’s more— more excuses?’

“Charlie seemed unnerved and didn’t bother looking up from studying his boots. ‘Have you guys forgotten what you said about his race conditions— like: [1] the weight was too much, or that maybe [18] he was giving away too many pounds?’

“Doc’s eyeballs rolled to the top of his head. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is there anything else?’ He turned to Larry and poked him in the shoulder. ‘Did you hear that crap?’

“‘Sure did. What have I been saying all along, fellas? It’s not meant to be,’ Larry mumbled. ‘Let’s face it guys, we never should 'o done this. Humph, we sure bought us a bum, alright.’

“Larry’s prophetic rip inspired humbled opinions; our way of coming to grips with Dissun Terry’s certain demise. David was first to toe the waters spouting tin-horn knowledge that comes with rookie ownership. “‘What’s Charlie talkin’ about? Why should distance bother him just because [39] his sire was only a sprinter?’

“‘So much for what you know,’ Doc countered. ‘That was his broodmare sire, dummy. [40] His sire could only win at a mile and a half,’ both staring each other down, neither sure of what the other really knew.

“‘Why is everybody so riled?’ I said. ‘Maybe [52] he needs blinkers, is all.’ But that only spurred a sharp retort from the bulky Chuck standing to my left.

“‘That’s a load a malarkey,’ Chuck grumbled. ‘We all know [53] he runs better without blinkers.’

“A little shoving and glaring induced Charlie to referee. ‘Boys, calm down. We gotta be going now, anyway. It’s almost race time.’

“Grateful for the reprieve, we ambled out to the saddling paddock, but not without stopping for more liquid courage. Despite a light drizzle, crowds gathered round, but we managed to wedge our way in along the paddock railing.

“‘Good grief,’ Bobby groaned. ‘Look at all these people. Why so dang many have to hang around here, for crissake. We’re the owners, not them.’

“‘Look at Dissun Terry,’ Rich said, shoving his drink toward the saddling stall, slopping a dollup of whiskey onto little Mikey’s head. ‘Looks to me like [5] the crowd scared him.’

“All agreed; it was obvious [14] he was nervous.’

“Dissun Terry kept prancing and pawing the ground until the call for ‘riders up’ rang above the din of the crowd. People dispersed as jockeys guided their mounts toward post parade. We continued on through the clubhouse and claimed a vantage point along the outside rail near the wire.

“On the way, Doc pulled at David’s arm. ‘Saaaaay, ain’t you gonna get a bet down first?’

“‘Hell no,’ David said. ‘You heard what the trainer said. Besides, don’t you know nuthin’ about horses?’

“‘What d’ya mean?’ Doc blinked, wondering what he’d missed.

“David siezed a second chance at one-upmanship. ‘Look around ya. Can’t you see it’s been raining?’ He swept his hand about the grounds as if blessing the place. Armed with nouveau-authority, David continued to educate old Doc. ‘Why, any fool can see [35] he wasn’t wearing his mud caulks. And another thing, doofus, [43] the jockey didn’t fit him; too big and gangly lookin’ for my likin'. [2] He had a bad post, too. No sir-eee; no bet for me.’

“The horses finished warm up jogs and were nearing the gate. We guzzled refills attempting to stave off the jitters, our eyes glued to the far side of the track. Assistant starters snatched bridles and began leading horses into the starting gate. Though no one spoke, our faces were nearly audible: saints preserve us, our champion is about to get his ass kicked.

“Larry pointed at Dissun Terry. ‘Good Lord, do you see what I see?’ [46] He was fractious at the gate, wasting precious energy fighting his handlers. But once in, the intercom came to life: ‘they’re all in, aaaaaaaaand they’re off!’

“Only seconds after the explosive start, Chuck's face lit up; he was fuming. ‘Good God almighty! [48] The assistant starter held his tail. Damn him,’ Chuck cursed, but Larry corrected.

“‘Not so, [49] the jockey was asleep when the gate opened. That’s why [50] he walked out of the gate.’

“‘Damn!’ I yelled. ‘[29] He should have gone to the lead.’

“‘Whadja ‘spect,’ Doc slurred, ‘[42] the jockey almost fell off when [31] the saddle slipped.’

“But as it turned out, we were all wrong. Two jumps from the start, [34] the jockey lost his irons as [11] he was knocked off stride coming out of the gate. Worse, [24] another horse clipped his heels and [32] he lost a shoe. Yet amidst the jostling and banging of flanks battling for positions, Juan Gomez managed to hold on, his knees pinching the colt’s withers with all the strength he could muster.

David was transfixed on the action. He cringed, grabbed both ears, and yelled. ‘Ugh! I think [51] he stepped in a hole!’

“Larry again proffered correction: ‘no he didn’t, [6] he jumped over a hole in the track, you twit.’

“His goof exposed, David glowered as the horses neared the half mile pole. By now, it seemed [4] the early pace was too much; [12] the jockey moved too soon. Moving quickly forward, [41] the jockey had to take him up. By now, it was obvious [8] the jockey didn’t rate him; [9] he was too close to the early pace, expending precious energy needed for a closing rush that spelled certain defeat. I glanced at Charlie who was using binoculars.

“‘It looks to me like [16] he was climbing, not running,’ Charlie said, but suddenly became enraged. ‘What’s that numbskull doing? [36] The jockey hit him left handed when I told him never to hit him on that side.’ Charlie feared Dissun might bolt to the outside, and seething with contempt for the jockey, he lowered his glasses.

“Chuck’s face gnarled into knots. ‘[37] The jockey shouldn’t have hit him at all. [38] He needed a stronger hand ride,’ f’crissake!’

“‘Charlie’s right. Look!’ I yelled. ‘[20] He was trying to bear out all the way, now.’ To our dismay, [10] he lost too much ground on the outside. My God, I prayed, trying to will the jockey into doing something— and quickly. I must have conjured up too much mojo, because at that moment, we witnessed yet another ill-fated decision.

“‘Now [21] he was trying to get in all the way!’ Chuck was boiling. ‘Christ, Gomez! Don’t you know where you’re going? The blasted idiot should know better; [17] it was too deep on the rail.’

“‘Just like last time,’ Bobby said, making the sign of the cross. ‘We’re finished.” He kicked the chain-link fence between his son's legs. There was no doubt [13] the jockey moved too late because [7] he got pinched back at the turn.

“Suddenly, a spark of hope recharged the ranks as Dissun Terry quickened his stride. But as he tried sneaking through a wall of horses, [22] he was blocked in the stretch with less than a furlong to go. Our confidence sputtered like a spent balloon.

“We’d had enough and couldn’t bear to watch another stride. Larry and Doc held each other for mutual comfort. Rich and Bobby draped their arms over the fence and stared at the dirt in defeat. I felt dizzy and closed my eyes to steady myself.

“Chuck and Bill were the only two watching the final yards disappear as a pack of horses passed in front, nostrils flaring and heads bobbing. Chuck rocked Bill with a heavy hand to the shoulder.

“‘Will ya look at our useless pipsqueak!” Chuck yelled, pointing at the jockey. ‘Hey, Gomez; are you stupid or what! You used him up! Don’t ya know that [30] he spit the bit?’ Chuck mumbled expletives, turned his back to the track, and threw his drink at the pavement.

“As quickly as crowd cheering reached a crescendo, noise flittered to scattered shouts as the horses crossed the finish line. Hundreds tossed losing tickets into the air, cursing. Others bounced on their toes, pinching wagers praying for a favorable photo.

“Within the span of a minute and change, we were reduced to a band of blithering losers as Charlie’s cell phone came to life.

“‘Hello, Kelly,’ Charlie answered, noting the caller ID.

“‘So what’s your take on Dissun Terry?’ Kelly asked.

“Charlie glanced at his crestfallen owners. ‘As I see things right now, you ask? Uh, I guess you could say [54] he just didn’t run his race today.’

“’I don’t get it,’ Kelly mumbled, studying the replay on the off-track monitor. ‘What does he mean— he didn’t run his race today?’ Kelly’s professional eye thought Dissun Terry did well to hang in there, showing a little class in his second start.

“‘Crazy?’ Charlie smirked. ‘Yeah, I suppose you could say that. But hey, it’s a long story and I gotta run.’ Charlie cut him off and went to help his groom unsaddle a panting Dissun Terry walking in tight circles with four other horses in front of the grandstand

“Still puzzled, Kelly studied the replay on the off-track monitor. ‘I don’t get it,’ Kelly mumbled. What does he mean— he didn’t run his race today?’ Kelly’s professional eye suggested Dissun Terry did well to hang in there, showing a little class in his second start.

“‘Something’s really strange up there in River City,’ he mused. What do those idiots expect— a run-away romp every time? Ha, and now lookie there,’ Kelly chuckled, pointing at the monitor. ‘He got it by a nostril.’

The photo finish confirmed official results as the cameras zoomed in on a jubilant Charlie leading a tired, but feisty chestnut into the winner’s circle.

* * *

“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun— hell of a story.” Bob laughed. “I’d bet my producer would like to make a movie out of that one, but the Marx Brothers are dead, heh, heh. On the flip side, you’ve just proved my point: your horse made a monkey out of you all."

And those excuses,” I added.

“Okay,” I conceded. “But if you promise to be nice, I got another story about a monkey who’s willing to buy a win ticket for his buddy tomorrow— providing that monkey gets to tip more wine with his friend tonight.”

“I hear ya, but I’m fresh out of Banana Ripple,” Bob chuckled. “You’ll have to settle for Chateau Moutin, but I guess you’re worth it. You know, on second thought,” Bob paused, “I’ve got an even better deal.”

Bob peeled a c-note from his money clip. “Here, put this on your filly’s nose, but on one condition: you promise not to boost that list to fifty-five with something like: 'she stumbled; the moon was in the wrong phase, or whatever.' Then Marianne and I will join you at D’Nato’s tomorrow night no matter what happens— deal?”

My face matched the color of Bordeaux. Bob’s famed, mischievous grin widened as we shook hands.

“Deal.”